


uneasy

by Oswald



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, demons in the closet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oswald/pseuds/Oswald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a story about liars.<br/>non-linear narrative.<br/>more tags will be added where appropriate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. stomach

 

            Two ships pass in the night. The sea rolls and writhes and the murky black swallows the unlucky.

            Coach was first. They were overwhelmed, cornered by infected--a tank barreled through, grabbing Coach and tossing him high into the air. His body made a wet thud when he hit the concrete, a pool of blood spreading around his mangled face.

            Nick grabs Rochelle (kicking and screaming) and Ellis helps him fend off the raging tank as they make their escape.

            She cries, "We have to go back", but she knows they can't. The guilt wells in her gut, tearing at the flesh. And she, who had once seemed so steady, suddenly breaks, sinking her fingernails into Nick's shoulder and fighting him even harder.

 

            The safehouse is not even a mile away. The irony is stifling.

           

            Ellis looks back once. He can't see much beyond the mass of infected, but he does see the bright pink of entrails spilling on the ground. They're feasting on the torn belly of their compatriot, gobbling down what morsels they can.

            It's a sight that stays with him a long time.

 

            There is very little talk that evening. Ellis curls with Rochelle, his eyes weary and his face blank--he doesn't know how to comfort her, but he _does_ know how to hold her. And maybe she appreciates that.

            Nick stays in his corner and thinks. The static of silence fills his ears. He stares at his shoes and, for just a second, he muses on how they're absolutely _ruined_.

            Nick looks up to see Ellis staring at him. At first, it seems as if the kid's trying to think of what to say...as if he's trying to explain. But he can't. And he doesn't. And Nick doesn't have the heart to tear himself away.

 

            They stare at each other for the remainder of the night. And not much is said, but plenty is understood.


	2. smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fire rises

 

            Upon Coach's death, Nick is unceremoniously made leader of their trio. There is no argument (they don't have the energy) and Nick (unwillingly) accepts the job.

           

            They travel to the next town over, desperately searching for other groups--supplies were dwindeling, what little water they had left was growing stagnant, everyone was exhausted. The last few safe houses they'd found had been lost causes--very little ammo, even fewer rations. Ellis was limping on a twisted ankle, Nick had a bad gash on his thigh that wasn't healing right and Rochelle was growing sluggish and feaverish (the common cold took no sick days during the infection). It was unanimously decided that the next safepoint they found, they would take a few days rest--just enough for everyone to recover and be in top form.

            What did it matter, anyhow? CEDA was nowhere to be found and any other bands of travelers were as illusive as the loch ness--they were alone, as far as they knew. Why stick so rigidly to a schedule that was getting them nowhere?

           

            Rochelle mentions how the nights are getting longer and the mornings colder.

            "It'll be autumn soon." she says, and the little hint of joy in her voice is a small revival of their fallen spirits, "Pumpkin season."

            "God, never thought I'd say this, but I miss the goddamned pumpkin lattes." Nick responds with a sigh, smirking.

 

            The town they enter is empty, save for a few infected that stumble about. They've gotten used to so-called 'stragglers' appearing every now and again--on their own, infected are easy pickings and aren't even worth the ammo.

            Nick breaks into the closest townhouse they see and scouts the place in it's entirety before he motions for the other two to enter.

            Ellis locks the door behind him.

           

            The former resident's had seemingly stocked for hunkering down--the place was filled to the brim with dried and canned goods, candles, batteries, bottled water. There were no bodies, no stained brown patches of blood that normally dotted the environment, no smeared viscera on the walls--whomever had lived there must have been evacuated.

            'Good for them', Ellis thinks

 

            Rochelle coaxes the gas stove to life while Nick fiddles with an emergency radio, trying to find any source of information over the idle airwaves. He's got his pantleg rolled up, bitting his tounge and pouring rubbing alcohol on the open wound; Ellis offers to help, but is turned away with a "fuck off"

            (he's learned not to take it to heart)

 

            Instead, Ellis huddles in the corner of the kitchen and watches Rochelle cook with quiet awe.

 

(and thinks of all those years ago, sitting on the plastic tile floor of the kitchen, watching the tall, stiff form of his mother move so gracefully, so fluidly in the kitchen.)           

 

            His bad ankle is swollen and red and he's got the leg stretched out far away. The pain is beginning to dull. Rochelle turns her head away from the pot and covers her cough with a crooked elbow.

            "It's like I'm being watched by a puppy!" Rochelle declares good naturedly, her hand on her hip, "Don't you give me that look, the food'll be done when it's done."

            Her voice is raspy and warm.

            Ellis laughs, leaning his head back against the dusty wall. There is a comfortable silence, the soft bubbling of chicken noodle soup having its say.

            "You've been quiet recently." Rochelle says after some time, still eyeing the soup, "Something on your mind?"

            Ellis shrugs, content in his little corner, "Ain't got nothin' to say. Already said it all."

            Rochelle doesn't push the subject. But she does bring the heat down, letting the soup simmer. She pulls herself away from the stove, moving to sit next to Ellis. Her head falls onto his shoulder, and he leans into her, the warmth of another body comforting.

            The house is virtually silent, save for Nick's fiddling with the radio. For a moment, they are at peace.

 

            Dinner is a quiet affair. The soup tastes old and tinny, but it's the only _real_ food they've had in days and they gobble it down like ambrosia from on high.

           

            Rochelle's fever gets worse as the sun begins to set. Nick scavenges through the bathroom, finds a vial of nearly-expired nyquil.

            She hesitates, mentioning that the calm night may turn on them

            "What if something breaks in?" She rasps against Ellis' chest; he'd taken to holding her in his arms, keeping her warm (although her body felt like it was on fire), "What if something--"

            "Last time I checked, me and hayseed over there were both adults. I think we'll manage fine without you for a few hours." Nick interrupts, pushing the measuring cup into her hands. She eyes the red, viscous medication and then glances at Ellis, as if needing confirmation. He smiles and nods, and that seems to be enough.

            Rochelle makes a face as she swallows; there's still a thin film red in the measuring cup.

            "I wish they knew how to make that stuff more palatable." she grouses petulantly, and Nick can't help but chuckle. She's asleep within the hour, and the sun sets into the twilight, red light seeping into the ever approaching black.

 

 

            Ellis noses around and finds backpacks in the main living room, beside the couch. He packs the first with canned soup and dried pork scratchings, and bottled water, and any other travel-sized food packages he can find. He packs the second with all of the medications Nick found in the bathroom.

            The third he packs with regular supplies, things they could use in the future--batteries, a few lighters he scavenged from the kitchen, a couple of paperback books. It's marginally lighter than the other two; Ellis decides that he'll give this one to Rochelle.

 

            He finds a fourth backpack. He leaves it where it lays and tries not to think about it. Ellis stows the backpacks by the door, ready to be scooped up in case of emergency.

 

* * *

 

 

            Now, it should be noted now: no one was really at fault for the fire. It was an accident, pure and simple--there's nothing more to it then that.

            It would only occur to Nick later the pure, unadulterated, sickening _irony_ in the fire. It was the gas stove, all along--it was old, rickety, obviously on it's last legs. Starting up after such a long time must have set off some sort of spark; the specifics still escape him, but what he does remember was that it took Rochelle quite some time to breathe the stove to life.

            And eventually, that breath of life was her own undoing.

 

            It started sometime after midnight--had the fire started earlier, maybe they would have been more lucid in their escape.

 

            The house was of an unusual design--one would first enter through a long hall, and then directly into a living room, with an open kitchen to the left and a guest bedroom on the right. A set of stairs lead to two more bedrooms, a bathroom, and an open sitting space. In any other circumstance, the little house would have been "charming". In the few months of neglect, the house had instead become dank and dusty. Upon closer inspection, the insulation had rotted in the walls and the kitchen stank to high hell with old food that hadn't been removed--the residents had indeed stocked up for the long haul, but they'd neglected to ensure that their own house could withstand as long as they could.

            They let Rochelle sleep in the guest bedroom on her own--the last thing they needed was for _everyone_ to fall ill, after all. Through the light of their flashlights, the other two made their way upstairs, eventually finding the next two bedrooms. There was very little fanfare about sleeping--while they had once had some sort of routine (i.e.: brush teeth, wash face, set up clothes for the day, etc.) the infection had taken that from them. Sleep was a _blessing_ , one that needed to be taken advantaged of the moment the opportunity came.

            Nick made a noise when Ellis entered his room, as if he wanted to say something. But when Ellis turned, shining the light in Nick's direction, Nick couldn't find any words to say. He looked..lost.

            They stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at one another. The silence was suffocating.

            "Night." Ellis said finally, turning and entering his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

            Nick continued to stand in the hallway, staring at the closed door.

            "Night." He repeated to himself.

 

 

            It wasn't the sound of the crackling that roused him. Nor was it even the smoke--no, those two things were only a dream in his sleep-addled haze.

No, it was the _feeling_. The anxiety that screamed and thrashed in his skull, the horrible, weighty _thought_ that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Ellis was used to that feeling--he'd lived with it from birth. His sister called it "intuition" and his father snorted and said nothing.

            His mother, however, only stared at him. And as she cooked, she handed him a biscuit, fresh from the over, and patted his cheek, and told him gently to never tell anyone about that feeling ever again.

            "People don't understand, dear." She said, "They never do."

            There was nothing supernatural about  it. Nor was there anything that spectacular--thousands of people lived with anxiety and did fine. But the nagging he felt wasn't generalized--it only sprung his head when something was about to go wrong.

            "Its called luck." his mother said as she returned to her cooking, "That's all."

 

(the next day, the family dog went rabid. his father grabbed the thing by the scruff of its neck and choked it to death. his mother stood at the back porch and watched, her fingers kneading into her apron. her knuckles turned white.)

 

            The anxiety screamed and suddenly Ellis was ripped from his sleep, his eyes snapping open. The smoke surrounded him, the heavy stench of burning carpet stinging his nostrils. He coughs, hand frantically searching for his flashlight and throws the blankets he'd swaddled himself away.

            Nick is hollering his name, stumbling through his door.

            "The hell is going on?!" Ellis shouts, finally finding his flashlight, "What--"

            "Let's go!" Nick grabs Ellis by the arm and yanks him.

            "Fuck-- _shit_ \--NICK, I ain't got my shoes on--"

            "The kitchen's on fire!!" Nick roars, "Let's _go!!_ "

 

            Ellis grabs his shoes and runs behind Nick, nearly tripping on the third stair.

            The orange light is intense, fire licking at the ceiling in high, energetic spurts. There's just barely a path to the door, as the living room is engulfed in flames, the couch roasting, the dusty curtains turning black with soot. The air is hot, so hot, and the roar of the fire is deafening.

            Nick is grabbing the backpacks at the door and throwing them out; he turns and grabs at Ellis again, yanking him towards the door.

            "MOVE!"

 

            They tumble out the door, onto the cold street.

            Nick turns back, his hair a mess. The cut on his leg has reopened in the mayhem--bright red blood soaks the already dirty pantleg.

            Ellis jumps to his feet, "Rochelle-- _christ, RO IS STILL IN THERE!_ "

            Nick is already running towards the door, but the fire is there to greet him. He's pushed back, the flames leaping higher and higher, the fire starting to spread to the second floor.

            Nick falls back to the concrete, coughing and hacking. The smoke has filled his lungs, his eyes stinging with burning soot. He's rolling on the concrete, cursing and spitting--a feral cat whos fur got singed.

             The backpacks are strewn everywhere; one of the cans have broken, covering the remaining food in a thin film of chicken noodle. The remaining liquid leaks, a pool that looks almost black in the ever growing red glow.

 

Ellis stares at the burning building and feels bile fill his throat.

 

\---

"get rid of it" he said.

"we've already got the girl, get rid of it"

she stared at him and said nothing.

she was going to get this one right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should say now that i honestly think rochelle is my favorite valve female.  
> seriously, she's so badass, i am //jealous//  
> so rochelle dying is not to fulfill some "i want only my otp to be together" fantasy  
> there's actually a point  
> i know  
> shocking isn't it? 
> 
>  
> 
> -LOBO


	3. Emaciated

The fire rages during the night.

 

            A rain shower starts in the early morning and the sting of irony is profound. They keep close to the fire to watch if it spreads, watching the fire dwindle to embers.

            (but what would they do if the fire DID spread?)

            The other buildings next to the townhouse are scorched and blackened, but due to the brick exterior or sheer, bitter fate, only _their_ refuge is burnt to the ground.

            The sting of irony doubles.

 

            Fate is a ravenous animal, all teeth and claws and bright saliva. It gnaws of bloody bones, smacks it's lips against raw flesh, devours all it desires.

            It will take _all_ of them, Nick thinks, it's just a matter of time.

 

 

            (He never ate much as a kid. He was never hungry.

            His wonderful, ever doting mother would stare at him and pat his head and tell him that he needed to eat sometime. But she never pushed, never pried. She didn't want to bother him; that was how she was raised.

            "I want you to be different" she said once, as she tucked him into bed, "I want you to be _better_."

 

(but oh, the result. Staring at a burning building, covered in soot, his eyes screaming.)

 

            And maybe he did as well.

            She learned how to cook different things - she tried every recipe in every book imaginable. She asked friends, the last of the family that would talk to her, she searched and searched and searched for food that would make her baby, her last child, _eat_.

            But it was all for naught. By the age of 10 he was skinny, his skin drawn taut over his gaunt frame.

 

            Lying in bed one night, he finally told her--the less he ate, the more money they would have for rent.

            He still regrets telling her that, all these years later.

            Two days after that night, she told him to pack his bags.

            "We're going back" she said, worry etched into her face, "I already called your father, he's missed you."

 

            His fool of a father, that son of a bitch. How dare he drag his mother into this foolishness, how dare he drag _everyone_ down...bastard, that dirty _bastard_.

            (Nick never quite outgrew name calling.)

 

            His father welcomed them back at the door, taking his son into his right arm, his wife unto his left. He kissed them both, his mouth lingering at the corner of her thin lips. She tried to smile but he knew. They _all_ knew.

            She was _miserable_.

 

It would be a misery that lasted until her death.

 

            That night, tucked into his big bed, he heard his father downstairs, pleading with her.

            'I wish you loved me' he said, 'You did before. In L.A., remember? You said you loved me then. What changed?'

            'You.' she responded quietly.

           

            At the top of the steps, Nick peers at the long, lean shadows; the taller, the monstrous one, moves like a feral animal, waiting to devour the smaller, more timid one.

 

            Nick closes his eyes as he hears the sob and)

 

           Opens them and stares into the dying embers. He's been sitting in that one spot for hours, watching Ellis pick through the soot and still glowing boughs; he wants to find Rochelle.

           He wants to say goodbye.

           Nick doesn't stop him. He doesn't have the strength. He watches a straggler stumble across the street, mouth turned open in the rain, eyes glossy.

           For one horrible moment of amusement, Nick thinks the straggler looks _hungry_.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what i'm doing.  
> the prompts are taken from a list given to me by a friend. i will try to find original link to list.  
> -lobo


End file.
